Tilt - Alan Cumyn [58]
It was some of those things.
It was completely different.
Sometimes he was inside her and he didn’t even know it. Or he felt like maybe he was inside her but he wasn’t sure. When he was on top he was more certain — if she put him there.
Sometimes she put him there.
Sometimes . . . sometimes he wasn’t sure where his skin ended and hers began, because it was terrifically hot, and he was sweating like the hottest day in the hottest gym, but it wasn’t that. It was sweat so hot they steamed together with the touch of her belly . . . of her belly sliding against his . . .
They slid.
There was no talking.
Sometimes she whispered something, but it wasn’t . . . words so much as . . . little exclamations and low noises.
And her hair kept brushing against his skin . . .
The lizard tasted salty.
They kissed and kissed just like in the kitchen but even more so.
It was all for real.
He had a vague sense that she might get pregnant. But probably she wouldn’t. He’d already fired across her bow. It was a funny saying. He started to laugh for a moment until she asked him what was so funny, and then he couldn’t say, and she started doing something . . .
There was a lot they did together.
Everything.
Everything changed on the little rectangle of his bed on a slow afternoon with Feldon sleeping downstairs in the kitchen cupboard and Janine Igwash swimming in his arms, and he in hers, until her hair was stringy wet and his skin was completely . . . completely new and even then they kept kissing to make the planet stop.
The whole planet stopped.
That’s how deep, how impossibly, they kissed.
24
Stan was looking at posts — slow, self-painting posts — but Janine was on the dock. Lying in the sun.
She was so much in the sun that he could hardly see her. But it looked like . . . she was in a bikini, maybe, and her eyes were closed so he could watch all he wanted.
If only he could see her better.
“Stanley!”
It was fascinating to watch the thick white, glossy paint creep up inch by inch, post by post all by itself.
“Stanley!”
His mother’s voice.
“There you are!” She was barging through the door, eyes first . . .
“What are you — ! For God’s sake, Stanley!”
At least Janine wasn’t there, he thought. It was all just his usual dream.
“Who the hell is that?”
Janine turned, sleepily.
Oh, shit.
“Mom —”
“Stanley! Stanley!”
The furious recitation of his name.
“I left you in charge — !”
She didn’t know where to put her eyes. Stan had the pillow now in front of himself . . .
“Oh,” Janine said.
“Where the fuck is Feldon?” his mother said.
“Mom, it’s all right.” His heart was pounding in his brain but he felt calm.
“Where did you put him!”
Stan put his hand on Janine’s shoulder. She was trembling in the sheets.
“Give us a minute,” he said, dead calm, a whole expanse of desert in his voice. “Mom, this is Janine. We’ll be out in a —”
Another voice said, “Who’s that? Oh, my God!” A woman was peeking around the door — big glasses, mousy hair. “Oh, my God!” she said again and disappeared, but her voice rattled in the stairway. “Feldon! Oh, honey — Feldon!”
“Is that Kelly-Ann?” Stan said, stupefied.
“Get yourself together!” Stan’s mother hissed and ran out of the room, clacking in her heels, slamming the door.
“Uhnn,” Janine said under her breath, like she’d been punched in the stomach.
Stan knelt beside her and gathered her in his arms.
“Listen.” His hands were shaking, too, but he didn’t feel that way inside. He felt like he was on the bridge of a battleship somewhere. That he had huge forces at his command.
“Listen. We’re going to get dressed and go downstairs. You’re my girlfriend. I love you. And my mom is —”
“Feldon! Where are you!” Kelly-Ann screamed downstairs.
“Is she —?”
“Feldon’s mom, I guess,” Stan said.
He tried to kiss her but she pushed him away.
“Now your mom is going to hate me.” She whipped her bra on like she’d been practicing for years. Stan rooted amongst the tangle on the bed, on the floor. His sorry underwear again.